Vinnie Stiglianese got out of the cab at the base of the large, unmarked bridge. It was a pleasant evening and the city sidewalks were crowded with people. He took his suitcase out of the trunk and then the cab edged into the traffic and moved away. He stood for a moment, keeping his foot pressed against the side of the suitcase so he’d be aware of it.

The flight had been delayed and he was about three hours later than he’d planned. He smiled. Being late was purely theoretical, of course, since this visit was going to be a surprise anyway. Well, he wanted it to be a surprise, but the person he was going to visit was extremely difficult to deceive. He couldn’t see how she would have found out, but…

He was suddenly aware that he was hungry, but he decided to wait to eat until he was across the river. It was a cliche that food on the U-town side of the river was almost always both better and cheaper than what you could find in the city, but, as he occasionally reminded his students, cliches become cliches for a reason.

The light turned green, and he picked up his suitcase and made his way across the street. Quite a few people crossed when he did, and some of them were also taking the bridge into U-town.

The bridge had no signs, but everybody knew where it went. It was blocked for vehicles at the U-town end, so there were no cars or trucks going over.

There was a stiff breeze coming off the water as he walked up the incline. He thought of stopping and getting a scarf out of his suitcase, but then he remember that he hadn’t packed one. He tried to travel light when he went to U-town, because he knew he’d be carrying his suitcase a lot.

He stopped at the highest point of the bridge and turned around to look back at the city. It was a dark night, so the city lights were at their most impressive.

This was Vinnie’s third trip to U-town.

The first trip had been just a few days after the Founding. He’d traveled with almost no luggage then, having rushed to the airport and booked a seat on the first available flight from Italy as soon as he’d heard the news.

This was half because history was being made, as he told his students later to explain his sudden absence, and half because it was his daughter who was making it. (Of course, yes, she was just one of many, but people do make allowances for a proud father.)

That time it had been odd crossing the bridge, because there had been no electricity in U-town. It had been like walking down a hill into a huge, bottomless pit, with all the city lights behind him.

He picked up his suitcase and quickly moved to the side as he heard a motor behind him. The other people on the roadway moved aside without even looking around.

When the taxi was past him, he picked up his suitcase and started to walk down the incline toward U-town.

His second visit had been special, because that had been so that he could attend, and participate in, his daughter’s wedding.

He still remembered the letter she had written to him.

Dear Professor Stiglianese,

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write this letter. It is my sad duty to inform you that your daughter, Jan Sleet (the famous amateur detective and intrepid gal reporter), has abandoned her life of chaste and selfless devotion to her vocation and is now quite openly living in sin with an older (though quite good looking) man.

The shame is bad enough, of course, but what’s even worse is that the man is an employee (Marshall, her assistant). So, not only is this situation an affront to the laws of the Almighty, there may also be trouble with the Labor Board.

Many of the fine, upstanding citizens of U-town have urged her to get married, of course, but she won’t hear of it until her dear, sweet, sainted father is here to give her away.

Please come at your earliest convenience to rescue your daughter from a life of sin.

A shotgun is not required, but formal attire is. There will be photographers.

From a friend.

About a half hour later, Vinnie stopped and looked around. He’d been looking for a seafood restaurant that he remembered from his last visit, but somehow he’d got turned around and now he was lost.

There was almost nobody on the street. The buildings were all warehouses, apparently deserted at night. He wished he’d asked somebody for directions.

Too much wool-gathering and not enough attention to his surroundings. U-town wasn’t that large, but it was still possible to get lost in it. Particularly if you weren’t a native, and it was night, and you were lost in your thoughts.

“Drop the bag, “said a soft voice behind him. “Tourist.”

Vinnie held his breath, then he let it out slowly as he lowered his suitcase to the sidewalk.

He stood motionless. He was ready to reach for the switchblade in his trouser pocket, but his hand wasn’t going to move until he knew more about who was behind him, how many there were, and how they were armed.

He’d had the switchblade since high school. It had been years since he’d pulled it out, now that he was a respectable college professor rather than a small-town tough guy, but it was sharp, oiled, and ready.

“Wallet,” the same soft voice said as he heard the suitcase slide away from him.

The voice had sounded closer, which indicated that it might be one man, who had to get closer in order to take the suitcase.

Vinnie didn’t care about the suitcase, but he was reluctant to give up his wallet. Maybe if he stepped forward, turned, and pulled the blade quickly enough–

*CRACK*

He heard a loud blow, a sharp exhalation of breath, and a piercing whistle all at the same moment, and he quickly executed his plan. A step forward, a quick turn, and the blade was in his hand and open.

There was a man, young and well dressed, lying on the sidewalk. He was gasping and holding his right arm. His right hand was limp, and there was a knife a few inches from it. The girl kicked the knife away and holstered the stick she’d been holding.

Vinnie had been told about Stevie One, or he would have been even more surprised to have been rescued by a teenage girl, dressed entirely in black, armed with two small billy clubs.

She turned to face him, and her right hand fell to one of her sticks. The holsters were low on her thighs, the ideal position for her to pull her weapons out quickly.

“The knife is not necessary now, sir,” she said firmly. “Please put it away.”

He closed the knife and returned it to his pocket. “I didn’t know the cavalry was about to arrive. Thanks, Stevie.”

Her mask covered her entire head, so he couldn’t tell if she was reacting to being addressed by name. She held out her hand and he shook it. “You appear to be a visitor, sir,” she said. “Are you lost?”

He laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

Before she could answer, two young security volunteers appeared at the corner and rushed over to them.

Stevie turned to face them. “What took you so long?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t sarcastic, but it was clear she was going to get an answer.

“We were helping a guy who’d fallen off his bicycle. He–”

“You should probably have split up. This gentleman was about to have to defend himself when I got here.” She gestured at the robber, still lying motionless and clutching his arm. He looked like he could have got to his feet and tried to escape, but what would have been the point? “Get him up and take him to the hospital.”

She turned back to Vinnie. “Where are you trying to go, sir?” she asked.

“To the hotel. My daughter lives there.” He had the idea that she was smiling, but it was impossible to be sure.

“You’re pretty far off course.”

“Oh, I knew that. I was looking for a seafood restaurant that I remembered from my last visit.”

“Do you remember the name?”

He sighed. “I think right now I’ll settle for the hotel. I can eat there. Can you point me in the right direction, please?”

The small island was off the coast of Massachusetts, connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. The storm had started around five in the afternoon, though the sky had been getting dark for a couple of hours before that.

The inhabitants who had jobs on the mainland had hurried home after work and shut themselves in for the night. The waves sometimes lapped clear over the causeway during storms, making it very dangerous to cross, and high tide was going to come at seven-forty-two.

There were about twenty houses on the island. Half of them were summer cottages, unused and locked up at this time of year.

Terry Nelson opened her eyes. She lay silently, motionless, wondering where she was. She could hear the wind outside, and the rain coming down hard on the roof. A tree branch rubbed against the window. So, not in the city. Not anywhere she knew.

She raised her head and looked around. A pleasant, rustic room, as far as she could tell in the dark. She was on a big bed with a mattress that was much too soft.

And it was unoccupied, except for her.

She sighed and smiled. No matter what else happened (and she had no idea where she was, so she had no idea what would be happening), this would be the best news of the day. She hated to wake up with company.

She stretched, her back aching, and she wondered if this place, whatever it was, had any firmer mattresses. If not, she might have to sleep on the floor. If she was going to stay. She tried the bedside lamp, but it didn't work. The power was probably out. She was tempted to go back to sleep, but she really wanted to find out where she was.

There was a sudden glare of lightning as she climbed out of bed and she began counting the seconds by reflex, though she no longer remembered exactly what that meant.

The light had enabled her to see the candle on top of the dresser, along with a matchbook. The candle was stuck into the top of an empty Chianti bottle. She lit it and looked at the matchbook, hoping it might be from some local business, but it was just an ad for a brand of cigarettes.

There was a brief crack of thunder as she carried the candle over to the closet.

The nightgown and robe she found were ridiculously frilly and sheer, and all in white, but she put them on and slipped into a pair of yellowed slippers that seemed to have been left on the closet floor ages ago. She glanced at herself in the mirror on the closet door as there was another flash of lightning. and she found to her dismay that the outfit was really too revealing – almost obscene. She rooted around in the dresser, but the underwear she found would not have been much help. She finally found a trenchcoat in the back of the closet. She put it on and belted it closed, aware of how ridiculous she was going to look with the frilly nightgown hanging out at the bottom.

She opened the door and stepped into the hall. It seemed to be a very pleasant house, as far as she could tell in the gloom, all stained wood and white trim, with several bedrooms upstairs. She moved to the staircase and made her way down to the first floor.

After it was dark on the island except for the occasional flash of lightning, two figures appeared walking slowly up a steep hill toward a bluff that overlooked the ocean, about forty feet above the roiling water.

They climbed slowly, occasionally grabbing tree branches or bushes to keep from losing their footing on the rain-slick grass and ground under their feet. They each carried a flashlight.

The first figure to reach the bluff was the larger one. It was a man, wearing a rain poncho, jeans, and boots. The smaller figure came up behind him. They were both looking around, using their flashlights to try to see through the darkness and driving rain.

Then there was a flash of lightning, revealing that the smaller figure was a girl. She was dressed all in black, in a snug top with a vest over it. Even her head was completely covered, by some sort of black mask, including goggles. Everything she wore was black, except for big yellow rain boots. Her pants seemed to have holsters for some sort of sticks.

"I don't see anything," the girl said.

The man laughed. "My employer is perfectly capable of sending me out here in the rain for no good reason, but I don't think she'd do that to you. I–"

"There," she said, pointing. "Down there." He came to stand beside her at the edge of the bluff. There was a shape down at the bottom, half in and half out of the water.

"Well," he said, "I don't know about you, but I'm not going to clamber down the face of this thing. I'm going to go back around–"

"Race you down!" she said. "You take the other side!"

She darted over to one side of the bluff and vanished over the edge. The man chuckled and went to the other side, climbing back down the way they had come. He watched his footing carefully – the ground was getting more and more muddy.

Downstairs, another sudden glare of lightning illuminated the living room and the front hall. Terry didn't see anybody around. Then, as it got dark again, she saw that there was a faint light from the back of the house.

She moved in that direction and found herself in the kitchen, which was also quite pleasant. It was occupied by a young girl who was sitting at the kitchen table with two textbooks and a pad in front of her, apparently doing homework by the light of a candle. She looked up and demanded, "Who the fuck are you?"

Terry was shocked at the cursing. The girl appeared to be twelve or thirteen, and Terry knew how she would have responded if a child had cursed like this in her classroom, but she didn't think she could be that strict in a situation where she didn't know where she was or why she was here.

"My name is Terry," she said. "I'm a schoolteacher. What's your name?"

"I'm Ron." There was a pause as Ron regarded her, lips pursed, including leaning over to see Terry's bare feet past the edge of the kitchen table.

"When did you get here?" Ron asked finally. "You came in before the rain started. Your feet are clean and dry, and those clothes aren't yours. If you hurt Angel, Stevie One is going to beat the living shit out of you."

Terry felt like she needed to try to control this situation better, so she went to the stove and lit a burner under the glass teapot. "Would you like some tea?" she asked, thinking about what Ron had said. Terry knew who Angel was, but who was Stevie One?

Ron had watched this very carefully, but she just said, "No."

"'No, thank you,'" Terry said quietly, turning to face her.

Ron frowned again and considered this. "No, thank you," she said after a moment.

Terry smiled. "That was pretty sharp, deducing those things. You remind me of Jan Sleet. Do you know her?"

"She's my mother."

Terry looked at Ron more directly, and Ron could tell that this news had upset this strange woman. Terry sat heavily in the chair opposite Ron. "I..." she began. "I have a question to ask. It may... Ron, what year is it?"

Ron was tempted to ask whether this woman was crazy, but it was becoming more and more obvious that she was. Ron told her the year. Terry's shoulders slumped and she looked at the table top, but Ron thought this was relief.

"If you want a drink, it's over there," Ron said, gesturing at a small wooden cabinet next to the refrigerator.

It was odd to be offered a drink by a young girl, but then Terry thought she understood. From Ron's point of view, Terry had appeared out of nowhere, probably wandered into the house, put on clothes she found there, and now had no idea where she was or why she was there. Ron's assumption was apparently that Terry was a drunk, subject to blackouts, and might benefit from the hair of the dog.

And Ron was adopted. Terry had panicked when Ron had said that she was Jan Sleet's daughter, because that would have meant that more than a decade had passed, but the girl was obviously adopted. She was small and swarthy, with bushy brown hair, a pug nose, and freckles. She bore no resemblance to either Jan Sleet or her husband.

Terry knew there was nothing to be gained by protesting that she wasn't an alcoholic. That was what alcoholics always did, after all.

The tea kettle started whistling, so she turned off the burner and took a mug from the dish drainer.

"Tea's in there," Ron said, pointing at one of the cabinets over the stove.

Terry was glad for the few moments to collect herself. She was in a house, in a thunderstorm, probably near the sea (by the smell). Ron, Jan Sleet's adopted daughter, was there – which probably meant Jan and Marshall were around also.

She sat down opposite Ron. "Are your parents here?" she asked.

Ron was looking suspicious again. "Yeah," she said slowly. "Why?"

Marshall opened the door, with Stevie One right behind him. She was about to say something as they came in, but he touched her shoulder and shook his head. He pointed down the main hall, where they could see Jan Sleet, in a nightgown and robe, standing near the lighted door of the kitchen, apparently eavesdropping on whatever was happening inside.

She had heard them come in and she turned, holding her finger to her lips. Marshall nodded and motioned for her to come over to him. Stevie sat down and pulled off her huge yellow boots and then she took off her mask revealing a teenage girl with short yellow hair.

Marshall pulled off his poncho and hung it up on a hook. Jan limped up to him and leaned over as he whispered in her ear.

Terry and Ron had stopped talking when they had heard the front door open and close, and a few moments later Jan Sleet and Marshall came into the kitchen. Terry stood up. "I've made tea," she said quickly. "Would you like some?"

"No, thank you, Terry," Jan said. "It's good to see you, by the way. I'm afraid we have bad news, though. There's been a murder."]]>

Ron woke up and panicked. She was lying on something soft and
sticky, with other people lying on both sides of her and even on top
of her, and she was naked. She struggled to get free, but she was
weighed down by whoever was on top of her, and it seemed she was stuck to
whatever she was lying on. The people lying around her were naked
also, as far as she could tell, and they didn't react to her squirming
and shoving. Maybe they were dead. Lying in bed with dead
bodies–

She finally managed to get free and she ran to a far corner of the
room, her heart pounding. She looked around, trying to catch
her breath. It looked like a bedroom. There was a dresser beside
her, with a little space next to it, between it and the wall. She
slipped into that space, hiding her nakedness as much as she could. After
a minute, her breathing somewhat under control, she leaned over and
peeked out. It was a room in the hotel, by the look of it. The
curtains and the bed looked like the ones in other rooms.

There were definitely naked bodies on the bed, but the room was so
dark that she couldn't tell much. The shades were drawn (thank
goodness for that), but it looked like it was still dark
out anyway.

It was at this point that she realized that her arms and legs all
seemed to be working properly. She couldn't lean over to touch her
legs in the tight space where she was hidden, but she did wriggle her
left leg and foot around. Everything worked fine. She flexed the
fingers of her left hand as well. All okay.

As the Golden had said.

Now it came back to her. They had come in after the meeting was
over and asked how she was. When everybody else had gone out, they
had brought over three chairs to sit with her. They had told her that
Mr. Bostwick was dead.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ron said. She barely knew Mr. Bostwick,
but she knew that was what you were supposed to say.

"With Mr. Bostwick dead, you are really our only friend–"

"Hey," she said quietly, "belay that kind of talk." She had read
that in a book in her Literature class and had always wanted to say
it.

Ron frowned. On one hand, this sounded like nonsense. On the other
hand, she reminded herself, her grandmother had made the pain go away
by touching her cheek, and Vicki had lifted a truck off of her. And,
as far as anybody knew, the Golden never lied.

"You'd better be telling me the truth," Ron said, making a fist.

"We are," Sharon said.

Ron shrugged. "What do I have to do?"

The Golden hesitated.

"This is the difficult part," Will said.

"Fucking tell me!" Ron said, raising her fist.

The Golden sat up straighter.

"You can't have clothes on," Sharon said.

"We all have to take our clothes off."

"Cloth is organic–"

"What? No fucking way!" Ron folded her arms and glared.

The Golden waited in silence for a moment, then Will said, "We
will... nobody will be there. Nobody will see. We will never tell
anybody."

Ron thought. She had no doubt they were telling the truth. She had
always thought that there was nothing worse than being naked. She
never took her clothes off – ever – except to take a bath,
when she really had to, always with the bathroom door locked.

But maybe there was something worse. Lying here on this sofa for
day after day, while people got hurt and killed and nobody even knew
what was going on. That was worse. If her leg was fixed, she could go
out on one of those teams Ray had talked about. She could be useful.

She was sure there weren't going to be mail deliveries, so she had
to do something else to be useful. And she damn sure couldn't be
useful if she was lying here with people bringing her food like she
was a baby.

"Okay," she said. "And no funny business!"

They nodded seriously.

"Where can we do it?" she asked. "Not in here, they'll be coming
back for another meeting."

"We found a room," Sharon said.

"At the end of this hall."

"We brought a cart from the kitchen."

"And some garbage bags."

"Garbage bags?" Ron demanded, but the Golden were already going out
into the hall. They came back a moment later, wheeling in a metal
cart. The top shelf was empty, and the bottom shelf held some plastic
garbage bags, a big roll of tape, and two candles. With some effort, the three of
them lifted Ron onto the top of the cart. She was sitting up, and she
held onto the sides of the cart as they wheeled her out into the hall.

"Ah, excuse me," came a voice from behind them.

"Oh, crap," Ron said.

Marshall came up to them. "May I ask where you're taking my
daughter? I'm sure we're not that desperate for food yet, and she's
really only slightly damaged."

"It's okay, Dad," Ron said. "We're just going down there. To that
room down there. For a while."

"I see," Marshall said slowly.

"I'll tell you about it later. Okay?"

Marshall looked at the Golden, who were motionless, their faces
blank. "Okay," he said. "I'll look forward to that explanation later.
Yell if you need me."

She nodded. "I will." They both smiled. Ron didn't smile very
often, but she was happy that her father trusted her and that he
wasn't going to ask any more questions right then. And she did know
that if she needed his help she could shout and he'd come running.

In the room, Will put the two candles on the desk and lit them.
Meanwhile, Craig and Sharon took the garbage bags and spread them out
on the bed, taping them together so they made a solid covering. Then
they wheeled Ron's cart over next to the bed, and, with Will's help,
they placed her in the center of the plastic covering.

She lay down and Will stood with his hand over her eyes as the
others untied the splints from her leg and then started to undress
her. She was really trying not to shiver as her clothes came off. She
wanted to take Will's hand in hers, but the others would have seen.
The room was very dark, lit only by the candles on the desk, but she
knew there was enough light for them to see her.

She didn't remember much else, until she woke up and panicked.

Well, she could come out of her hiding space. The Golden were
asleep and they had told her they wouldn't wake up for a while. Still,
somebody might come in. She reached around in front of the dresser and
pulled out one drawer. Empty. She tried another. Empty.

In the bottom drawer, she found a blanket. She pulled it out and
wrapped it around her. It was rough and scratchy, but she didn't care
about that. Feeling somewhat better, she stepped out into the room.
Now, where were her clothes?

When she found them, she smiled again. There was a little shelf at
the foot of the bed, probably for a suitcase, and on it were four
piles of clothes, all neatly folded, underwear on top. She took her
clothes and went into the bathroom to get dressed.

Coming back out (and dressing had been rather challenging
because the bathroom had been entirely dark), she wrapped herself in
the blanket again and went to sit in the armchair. The Golden were
apparently asleep. Naked. She tried not to look at them. They had
moved a little when she'd escaped from their clutches, or she would
have been worried that they were dead.

If she'd had a cigarette she would have smoked it, though her
father had told her she was too young.

She suddenly had another panicky thought. The Golden had done
something to her body. Nothing sexual, she was sure of that, but what
if they'd turned her into one of them? Wasn't that what happened in
movies? She picked up one of the candles and carried it over to the
dresser. She couldn't see the mirrror very well in the gloom, but she
looked the same as she always had. Bushy brown hair, not like the
sleek blonde hair of the Golden. Regular brown eyes, not weird gray
ones. Someone had once said she had a pug nose, whatever that meant.
She hated her freckles, because old people thought they were cute, but
she was glad to see them now.

As she turned from the dresser, she saw the Golden's knapsacks,
leaning against the wall in a neat row. She went over and lifted one.
There was something in it. She unzipped it, since that's what a
detective would have done, and looked in. It was too dark to see
anything, so she reached in and felt around.

The pack was mostly empty, but there were a few items in the bottom
which turned out to be cheese sandwiches, each one carefully wrapped
in paper.

She ate one sandwich as she carried the packs and left them next to the
bed. The Golden would probably be hungry when they woke up. Finishing
the sandwich, she took another one and folded it over so she could
stick it in her back pocket.

Well, it was time to get moving. The problem was her jeans. Vicki
had ripped them halfway up her thigh to Jan could examine her leg. Ron
wasn't going to go around with her leg showing, she had to get back to
her room to get another pair. But the stairs were on the other side of
the lobby, and she'd heard that the lobby was full of people.

The solution to that was speed. She got up and took off the
blanket, spreading it over the Golden. She opened the door and peeked
out. The short hall between her and the lobby was clear.

Thinking like a detective, though, Ron had one
question, and she wanted an answer. If the lobby was full of people
(and she could see some of them from where she was, and she could hear
more), then how had the soldiers made it to the meeting room without
anybody noticing them?

The short, gloomy hall had six doors, three on each side. They were
all either meeting rooms or sleeping rooms, and she didn't think any
of them had doors to the outside. She walked to the end of the hall
and saw a little alcove off to the right. She'd never noticed it
before because she'd never had any reason to go to the end of the
hall. At the end of the alcove was a door to the alley next to the
hotel. It had a bar across it that would open if it was pressed, but
the lock was broken. She opened it and leaned out to look at the lock
from the outside. It looked like it had been forced, and recently.

One mystery solved. There was a a narrow table against the wall
with a vase on it, and she dragged it over so that it blocked the
door. She figured that if anybody opened the door, the table would go
over, and the vase would break and make a noise. Then she realized
that the door opened outward.

She shook her head. She'd have to figure this out later. She turned
back toward the lobby. She took a deep breath. This was it.

Bang. She was down the hall at top speed, jumping the four steps
down to the lobby floor, dodging around a couple of people and through
the swinging doors into the stairwell. The best part had been when
she'd whizzed past Fifteen. His look of amazement had made her day. As
his eyes had widened, she'd straight-armed him in the center of his
chest and he'd fallen backwards, his arms waving around.

Feeling more like herself, she came out of the stairwell on the
fourth floor and walked to her room.

As she came down the stairs again, properly clothed now, Ron heard
engines way off in the distance. Fuck, nobody in U-town had cars. Was this
an invasion? The Jinx had motorcycles, but whenever they rode around
there was that weird wailing noise that went with them. She didn't
hear that. Just engines.

It was still dark outside, the air was still bad, and she heard the
engines getting closer. Her parents were there on the front steps of
the hotel, along with Ray, Pat, and Sam. Ray was now wearing jeans and
a T-shirt. Ron wondered how long she'd been unconscious.

Ron went and stood next to Marshall. He looked down.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." She waited for some acknowledgement of her miraculous recovery,
but he didn't say anything more. Everybody was looking down the block.
Ron looked also, but she didn't see anything in the darkness and
smoke.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"We heard the Jinx were leaving. Vicki ran to head them off at the
bridge and try to convince them to stay."

Ron waited a minute, then she punched her father lightly in the
arm. He smiled and leaned over. "Fifteen warned us," he whispered,
trying not to grin. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

She pointed, and the first group of motorcycles appeared at the end
of the block. They were moving in formation, slowly.

Ron didn't know much about the Jinx. They were some sort of
motorcycle gang. There were a lot of them, maybe hundreds. They all
dressed alike and they weren't very friendly.
The only Jinx she knew at all well was Christy. Christy had red
hair and was very pretty. She was friends with Ron's father, or really
with Jan and Marshall, though Ron could tell that her real attachment
was with Marshall. She was their security when they traveled outside
U-town.

Ron was sure, absolutely certain, that nothing was going on with
her father and Christy. If there was, Jan Sleet the great detective
would have figured it out. But Ron knew from experience where this
would go, sooner or later.

She had thought of killing Christy to protect her family, but even
if she could have done it, her mother would have known and things
would have got fucked up anyway.

In the lead was a motorcycle ridden by a tall, blond man. There
were about thirty or thirty-five other motorcycles behind him, all
coming fairly slowly, like some kind of parade or funeral. Ron
remembered that the blond man was named Neil.

At first they didn't see Vicki, but then Pat pointed and they saw
small black-clad arms around the blond man's middle, tiny hands
holding his jacket.

Neil and Vicki dismounted in front of the hospital, the other
riders pulling up behind them. Ron saw someone with a lot of red hair,
but she was too far away to tell if it was Christy.

"Where are the others?" Jan Sleet asked, "and where's Dr. Lee?"
Dr. Lee was the leader of the Jinx. Ron knew that, though she'd never
see her.

"Gone," Neil said simply, his face impassive. "We're the ones who
Vicki convinced to stay." He squeezed the shoulder of the tiny figure
next to him. "Dr. Lee and the rest left."

Ray started to say something, but Neil said, "We can talk later.
Who's handling the perimeter, the bridges?"

"Marshall."

He looked at Vicki. "No disrespect, but any objections to my
taking over on that?"

She shook her head. "None."

"Where is he based?"

"City bridge."

Neil turned to the others, all of whom had stayed on their
motorcycles. "We going to the city bridge," he said in a loud voice.
"We'll deploy from there. Let's go." They rode off, more quickly this
time.

When they were gone, Sam said, "That was pretty abrupt."

"We have to be happy for the help, for what they can do, but I'm
not happy about it," Vicki said. "It's like I broke up a marriage or
something. I was really hoping to convince them all to stay."

Ray shrugged. "They each made their own decision, that's the best
we could get."

Ron tapped her father's arm. "I want to go on one of those medical
teams."

He frowned. "Let's step inside," he said. "I want to talk to you
for a moment."

She sighed and followed him into the hotel, knowing this meant she
was in trouble. Again.

They went into a small empty office across the hall from the
meeting room. Marshall sat on a desk chair, so they could talk face
to face.

"I really don't want you to go," he said. "It could be dangerous."

"Fuck! Everywhere is dangerous. And people need medicine and stuff,
and–"

He put his hand over her mouth. "You're right. And that's what I
was going to say. You're needed, and you should go. Even though I
don't want you to."

"They why did you bring me in here? I thought you were going to
yell at me."

He smiled. "No, I'm going to hug you. Come here." They put their
arms around each other. "I'm very proud of you. And I know you hate to
be hugged in front of other people."

"Oh, by the way," he said casually as they got ready to leave, "are
you going to tell me how your leg got healed?"

"The Golden did it."

"How, if I may ask?"

"I really don't know. I was asleep when they did it."

"Can they heal other people? We have a lot of wounded."

She shrugged. "Maybe. We can ask them when they wake up, but I
think they're gonna be asleep for a while. They said it was really
difficult."

He nodded. "I imagine it would be."

Ron went to the lobby. She was trying to be cool, but she
wanted to jump up and down with the excitement of being able to walk
again. She could actually go out and do something useful.

She walked up to Fifteen and said, "I want to be on one of those
medical teams."

"Well, Ron, there isn't anybody else available right now. The
teams are all out–"

"You're fucking lying. I can tell." She punched him in the
shoulder, using her left hand just because it was working again. "What
are you lying about, you little piss-ant?"

"Well, your father wouldn't approve–"

"He also probably wouldn't approve if I knock you out and do your
job better than you're doing it. If I can't go out on a team, I might
as well do that."

"Alright. If something bad happens, I–"

She punched him again, with her right this time.

"Katherine wants to go out on a team, but nobody else wants to go
with her." He smiled. "Come on. I'll introduce you."

Ron followed him, doing her best to hide the fact that, for the first time
today, she was scared.]]>

Ron watched the woman in the yellow suit as she talked to the
soldiers. She was tall and thin like Jan, but Ron couldn't see her
face to find out whether there was a resemblance. She held a cane, and
Ron figured that this must be the "Tammy" who her father had mentioned
before, who had borrowed Jan's cane and who had got them through the
roadblocks on their way to the city.

The soldiers were listening to Tammy as she talked. Ron couldn't
really follow what she was saying, but she had the idea that the exact
words didn't matter anyway.

"Gentlemen," Tammy said finally, "please accompany me outside."

They left in a group, and Vicki sighed. "We need the eggs," she
said quietly.

Jan peered at her sister dubiously. "Eggs? What eggs?" she
demanded.

"It's like the old joke my grandfather used to tell. 'My uncle
thinks he's a chicken.' 'Well, why don't you take him to a
psychiatrist?' 'Because we need the eggs.'" She shook her head,
smiling. "Our mother has insane delusions that she's a successful and
persuasive lawyer. But we can't try to cure her; we need the eggs."
She turned to Ray. "What do you think of all this?"

He ran his hands through his long, stringy hair, which was wet.
With that and the robe he was wearing, it appeared that Vicki and Jan
had hauled him out of the shower. Ron thought she knew what had
really happened.

"I think two things," Ray said. "One is that I am very
curious about how she did that. Which I expect you won't tell me.
But, more important, I think this may not be isolated. We need to
cover the bridges and set up some sort of security. Right away."

Vicki nodded. "I agree."

"This wasn't an invasion," Ray said. "If they were going to invade
for real, they wouldn't send a few men with just a sergeant in charge.
I suspect this was a group of soldiers who got cut off and decided to
do their own thing. I hope she interrogates them when she has them."
He frowned. "I didn't think to suggest it before they left. But there
may be others, and a real invasion may come, too. We're going to have
to wait on everything else for a bit. We need to get somebody to cover
the entrances, the bridges, before–"

Tammy came back in and closed the door behind her. She smiled. "All
taken care of. They're headed for the bridge. We won't see them
again." Ray made a face, but he didn't say anything.

Tammy sat down and Marshall looked around. "Where did Sam go?" he
asked. Ron noticed that the Black man with the beard was gone, so she
guessed that was "Sam."

"He's gone," Tammy said idly. "It was never really going to work
with he and I, you know." She smiled. "It was fun, but I intimidate
men like that. I'm very successful in everything I do, I make a lot
of money, and I'm fantastic in bed. That makes men uneasy, unless
they're really self-confident. Sam's a nice guy, but he doesn't bring
a lot to the table."

The others were speechless for a moment, until Sam opened the door
and came in with two cups of tea. He placed one in front of Tammy,
and she smiled. "Why, thank you, dear," she said. "That was very
thoughtful."

As they sat down around the table again, Sam glanced quickly at
Ron, obviously wondering who she was. He leaned over to whisper
something to Tammy, who shrugged without turning around.

So, Terry knew who Ron was, but apparently Tammy didn't know and
didn't care. The room was gloomy and everybody was somewhat grimy and
dirty, except for Tammy who was spotlessly clean, including her long
red hair, and she seemed to glow as if she could have lit the room
herself if the candles had blown out. She looked less like Jan than
Terry did, but that could have been because Terry wore glasses and
Tammy didn't.

Marshall had remained standing. "I can coordinate the bridges," he
said. "Let me go and see what I can set up."

"Ask Pat to come in," Vicki said. He nodded and left.

Ron was not looking forward to being stuck on this sofa until
somebody got around to moving her, but she was looking forward to
being there for the meeting, since she was sure she would learn more
about what was going on. Marshall had told Terry that he didn't know,
but somebody must have learned something by now.

She did wonder what time it was. Usually when she came in to
deliver the mail the room was quite bright, with the the sun coming in
through the two windows. Then, when the sun was high, they turned on
the overhead lights.

But now the windows were dark, and there was no power. There were
two candles on the meeting table in the center of the room, and they
flickered and blew occasionally, throwing odd shadows on the walls.

The big table had twelve chairs. They were seldom all used, as far
as Ron had ever seen, but so many of them were empty now that it made
Ron think of the people who were missing, who should have been there
for a meeting like this.

Jan took out her cigarette case. She lit a cigarette and then held
the case out to Ray, who took one also.

Ray Stone was a drunk. Nobody had ever told Ron that, but she was
very familiar with the signs. Her birth father had always said, "Never
rely on a drunk. In an emergency, he'll just crawl into the nearest
bottle." Of course, Ron's birth father was an asshole, so she didn't
want to take his word for anything. But she thought that this was
pretty much what Ray had done when things had exploded. He looked like
he'd been drinking, and then Vicki had tossed him into the shower to
sober him up before dragging him down to the meeting room.

Ron was never going to drink. There was a whole list of things that
Ron was never going to do, but that was at the top of the list. Well,
almost at the top.

Pat came in, and Vicki motioned for her to sit down. "I need to
find out everything we know about what's happened." She gestured at
Sam and Tammy. "This is Sam and Tammy. They're going to try to help
us." She jumped up on the table and sat cross-legged. "Tell us
everything you can, and take your time," she said to Pat. "Start with
the big picture. We can get updated on specific people later.

"It was awful," Pat said. "At first we didn't know what had
happened. I guess we still don't know, not really. The explosion
happened first thing in the morning. You could hear it all over, it
was very loud."

"Were a lot of people injured?" Jan asked.

"A lot of people were killed," Ray said. "And many more were
injured. And the hospital is pretty close to the river so it was
basically ruined, though I think most of the patients got out. Like
many buildings near the river, it was flooded in addition to
everything else, since we're so close to sea level. It's still
standing, but it's no place you'd want to bring someone who needed
medical help."

"People came here," Pat said, "just like we've always told them to
in an emergency. Well, here or the hospital, but if they went there
first, they came here anyway. We sent runners to the bridge, but
mostly we sent teams around to look for people who were hurt. We were
bringing them here at first because I didn't know what else to do, but
there's no medicine or anything here. The hotel had some first aid
kits, with bandages and a few other things, but we used them up pretty
quick. Then somebody thought to send people to the school, because
they have an infirmary there, and all the supplies for the First Aid
classes. That wasn't my idea, but it was a good one, so we started
doing that."

Ray looked at Pat. "Are we sending teams into the city, or just
around U-town?"

"U-town. We still have injured people of our own–"

"We need to start sending people to the city, too. Soon. Not
instead of around here, but some need to do both. For two reasons.
Right now, people are concentrating, and correctly so, on the
immediate needs. People missing, people injured, people trapped. But,
not very long from now, they're going to start askng questions and
expecting answers. From us. About what the hell happened–"

"And is any more of it going to happen," Vicki added.

"Exactly. So, we need to be finding out what can." He turned to
Tammy, but he obviously couldn't figure out what to say. Or, Ron
reflected, she was preventing him from speaking. She was looking at
him as though he was an excaped mental patient, which was pretty much
what he looked like.

Marshall smiled at Tammy. "If we do get into communication with any
other soldiers, counselor, it would be good to learn what we can from
them."

She nodded. "That should be no problem."

Sam turned to Ray. "Excuse me, but what's your other idea about
the teams going to the city? And what type of teams are you talking
about?"

"Medical teams," Ray said. "A lot of how we work around here is
going out to people with medical help, rather than expecting sick and
injured people all to come to us. As for going to the city, I agree
that our first priority has to be our own citizens, but this can't
turn into us-versus-them. Who knows at this point what kind of mess
we're in, how bad it will be, how long it will last? Not me, that's
for sure.

"But I have a more practical reason for saying we have to go over
the bridge. That's where the medicine is. Most of our supplies were
in the basement of the hospital, and they're ruined. Depending on how
things are over in the city, there may be abandoned drugstores and
doctor's offices all over the place. We need what they contain, both
for our people and for theirs. We're suffering because we centered so
much on the hospital." He shrugged. "Something to learn from, if we
live long enough."

Ron was wondering about what wasn't being said. What about Doc
Morse and Jack Longstreet? Where were they?

U-town had been Ray's idea. She didn't need a Civics class to tell
her that; she'd learned it from her parents. But it had been Doc Morse
that had made it happen. She had realized that Ray's idea, that a
combination of factors had made it possible for U-town to secede from
the United States, could actually work. Ron's parents had told her about
this, about the local factors, and the national and international ones,
but it was clear that there had been one more factor as well, which
they didn't tell her about.

Jack had been their voice, she knew, a big, handsome guy with a big
voice and a talent for words. Ron had never liked him. She thought he
was an idiot. He had sometimes clapped her on the back when she
delivered the mail, and then he'd laughed when she kicked him.

Sometimes she threw out his mail, figuring that no mail for him
could possibly be important anyway.

"Ron..."

"Fuck. What?" Ron opened her eyes. She'd dozed off, obviously. She
hoped she hadn't been making noise. Her parents told her that
sometimes she ground her teeth in her sleep.

"Sorry to wake you," Vicki said, "but I need you to understand
something."

Vicki was standing next to the sofa. Ron glanced around. Tammy and
Sam were gone. Jan, Marshall, Pat, and Ray were still there.

"What?"

"We're going to talk about Doc and Jack now. I need to know what
happened to them, and I can tell from Ray's expression that I'm not
going to like the answer. So, whatever we're about to learn, let's
keep it just between us. Okay?"

"I'm not a blabbermouth," Ron said.

Vicki smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "I know you're not. But I
had to say it." She turned to Pat and nodded, resuming her seat on the
table.

"I was asleep when the explosion happened," Pat began, "or whatever
it was. I woke up and the room was full of smoke and junk, and I
didn't feel you in the bed with me. For a moment I panicked and
thought something had happened to you, but then I remembered that you
were away. I came downstairs, and Jack was here in the meeting room.
Everything outside on the street was a mess, windows were blown out
and everything, but the hotel was okay.

"I asked Jack what had happened, and he said he didn't know. Doc
had gone over to the hospital to help with the wounded." She shook her
head. "Then a runner came in and told us that he'd seen a wall
collapse on Doc, or someone who looked like her, between here and the
hospital."

"I went to look, and it was her," Ray said quietly. "That's when I
started my little... toot. Without her and Jack, and with you two
away, I couldn't imagine what I could do."

"I was glad you weren't here," Pat said quietly to Vicki.

"You were here, and I should have been." Vicki smiled and shook
her head. "I'm pretty hard to damage. But what happened to
Jack?"

Pat shrugged. "I have no idea."

Vicki was about to say something, but Ray said, "What do you
think happened to him?"

She turned and saw his expression. "What do you mean?" she
asked.

He sighed. "He's gone, obviously," he said. "Left, split, flew
the coop." He shook his head. "Take off those rose-colored glasses
and think about Jackson Longstreet for a minute, just think about him.
Do you really think he was going to stick around when things got
tough?" Pat looked upset, but Vicki was not reacting at all. "When you
were cleaning me up, you said that I'd been around for the better so
now I had to help with the worse. Well, I guess I'm not as cynical as
I thought, because I'm still here. But if we're going to survive
this, and do more than survive it, we'd damn well better be seeing and
thinking clearly. About everything, even each other."

Jan took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. "I think he's right,"
she said. "Damn it."

Vicki looked around the table. "For now, at least, this doesn't go
any further than this room. Not even to Sam and Tammy. Jack is
missing and presumed dead. We will have a service, I have no idea
what kind, but we'll invent something, for both of them, for Jack and
Doc."

Ray started to speak, but she continued, "You want to talk about
seeing and thinking clearly? Okay, think about this. Are the people
out there in better or worse shape with us trying to help figure this
out? Well, they know that when the trouble came, two of us weren't
here, one went on a bender, and two others vanished." She placed her
hands flat on the table and leaned forward. "Whatever trust we've
lost, rightly or wrongly, we've got to win back, and telling people
that Jack split town because it wasn't going to be so much fun
anymore, whether or not that's true, is only going to make things
worse." She looked around the table. "Any questions?"

The Golden got up at six-thirty every morning. There was a lot to
do before they went to school, and they liked to take their time.

They woke up, as usual, in a tight tangle of bodies and arms and
legs, like a cocoon in the center of their bed.

"Time to get up." "We know.""I'm glad we got the
blueberries.""They were too expensive." "But it was worth
it.""Yes." "Blueberry pancakes are his favorite.""I
think we should take baths this morning.""Good idea.""Not
just a shower.""Alphabetically.""I'll make the
breakfast.""And I'll help Mr. Bostwick."

Disentangling himself from the other two, Craig got out of bed and
padded off to the bathroom to start the water. Will and Sharon put on
their robes and went downstairs, Will to start breakfast and Sharon to
help Mr. Bostwick to get up and dressed.

"We're still sure something will happen today." "We should tell
him." "He'll know." "He can tell when we're upset." "I
hope he doesn't think we're leaving." "Why would we leave?"
"We wouldn't." "But he may worry that we will." "Then he would
have to go stay with his daughter and her family." "They sound
awful." "I wonder–"

"Children," Mr. Bostwick said gently.

Sharon turned from his dresser, where she was taking out his
clothes for the day. Will and Craig stopped what they were doing also,
though they were not in the room.

"We need to talk," Mr. Bostwick said.

"Will is cooking," Sharon said.

"Then we can talk in the kitchen. Please get me my robe."

She got Mr. Bostwick's robe and helped him into his wheelchair.
Then she wheeled him into the kitchen.

Will was at the stove, making pancakes. Craig had come down from
the second floor. He was wearing his robe, and his hair was still wet
from his bath.

Mr. Bostwick wheeled his chair over to the kitchen table, so Sharon
and Craig sat there. Will stood at the stove, watching the pancakes
that were on the grill.

"Something is wrong," Mr. Bostwick said, looking at them. He was
used to them, so their unusual appearance didn't bother him. They had
golden skin and shoulder-length blonde hair, with gray eyes, and they
looked so similar that only one person other than Mr. Bostwick could
tell them apart.

"You've been on edge all week," he said, "and it's worse today. And
now you're fixing my favorite breakfast, and you even bought
blueberries out of your own money, which you know you don't have to
do. Please tell me what's going on."

"We don't know," Will said.

"We've had a bad feeling all week."

"We've never felt this way before."

"And you're involved."

"That's all we know."

He nodded. "I see. And you think maybe I'm going to die today. So,
you're making my favorite breakfast." He smiled. "That was very
thoughtful of you. I feel about as well as I usually do, but at my age you never
know. Let's have our breakfast and talk of more pleasant things.
Okay?"

They nodded and went back to their work. Craig took over at the
stove and Will went upstairs to have a bath. Sharon wheeled Mr.
Bostwick back to his room to help him get washed and dressed.

He had been uncomfortable at first about being cared for in this
way by somebody who was, apparently, a thirteen-year-old girl. When
he'd expressed this, the Golden had shrugged, and Will or Craig had
assisted him instead. Then he gradually became aware that it really
didn't matter to them. If he told Craig a joke in the morning, Sharon
would refer to it later in the day. He started to treat them as if
they were completely interchangeable, as apparently they were.

It had been Mr. Bostwick who had insisted that the Golden go to school. At first they had had quite a few classes
together, but some of the teachers had become frustrated because they always gave the same answers on every test. Nobody had ever
been able to find any evidence that they cheated (though not for lack of trying),
but the decision was made that, whenever possible, they should be split
up.

This morning, Will had History, Sharon had Gym, and Craig had
Creative Writing. They were very good in History, but not in the
other two classes. They tried to do their best, as they always did,
but they were not strong, or fast, or able to master a lot of the
skills necessary to write stories.

They had the option to request different classes, of course.
Students had a lot of freedom to pick their own curricula and Mr.
Bostwick had suggested they ask for a change, but they had decided to
stay with the classes and do the best they could.

That morning, about halfway through their first period classes,
they suddenly stood up, made quick excuses, ran out of their
classrooms, met in the second floor stairwell, and threw their arms
around each other as the building shook and all the lights went out.

The next few minutes were chaotic. Students ran around, teachers
issues contradictory orders, smoke and dust were in the air. The
Golden knew what they had to do, though. Their first responsibility
was to go home and check on Mr. Bostwick.

One of the teachers was stopping students from leaving through the
front doors, so the Golden quickly went back to the stairway, down to
the basement, through a storeroom that was supposed to be locked but
never was, and out through a small window that led to a narrow alley.

The garbage cans in the alley had all been knocked over, so the
Golden had to climb over them to get to the street. Ordinarily they
would have picked them up and put them back where they belonged, but
it was more important to get to Mr. Bostwick.

They had arrived in U-town with no money. They had quickly learned that everybody was expected to volunteer at the hospital for at least a half day every week. They also learned that if they volunteered for a full day and worked into the evening, the hospital staff would see that they got some food and a bed for the night. They were well-liked at the hospital because they would happily do any job, no matter how unpleasant.

One of the patients they had cared for was Mr. Bostwick. He had had a stroke which had left him in a wheelchair. When he had been ready to be discharged, the nurse had said that somebody had to come to take him home. If not, they couldn't release him. Mr. Bostwick had protested that he could take care of himself, and in any case there wasn't anybody who could help him. After some yelling from both sides, the Golden had stepped in and offered to take Mr. Bostwick home.

On the way, they did some errands for him, and by the time they got to his house they proposed that if they moved in with him, they would take care of both the house and him, doing the shopping, preparing his meals, and cleaning.

He had agreed (he pointed out cheerfully that he really had very little choice) and they had moved in. To their surprise, he had apparently grown quite fond of them over time, and they knew that he had revised his will to leave his house and his few possessions to them.

The house appeared intact as they approached it. A couple of
houses on the other side of the street had collapsed.

The Golden opened the door and went in. The staircase to the second
floor had always leaned a bit to one side, and now it seemed to tilt
more than it had before. The air was better than the air outside, and
they quickly closed the door.

Mr. Bostwick was lying on the floor in the middle of the living
room. He had apparently fallen out of his wheelchair. There was a
board next to him on the floor, and a few pieces of paper scattered
around. The Golden knew that he used the board when he wanted to write,
laying it across the arms of his wheelchair to provide a writing
surface.

They squatted around the body.

"I think we're not supposed to touch anything.""That's for a
crime.""This isn't a crime.""What did he die
from?""Everything in the room is the way it was before.""I
think it was a heart attack.""He did have to take that
medicine.""For his heart.""Maybe the shock of the explosion.""We should pick
up the papers and the board.""And there's his fountain
pen.""We'll have to find the cap.""Otherwise it will dry
out.""I don't see the cap."

They laid the board and the papers neatly on the dining room table,
and then they looked around under the furniture until they found the
cap. They screwed the fountain pen closed tightly, then they placed
it on top of the pieces of paper, which were blank.

Then they looked at the body again.

"We should move him.""Where?""Into a chair.""It's not
right to have him just lying on the floor."

Working together, they managed to lift the body and put it in Mr.
Bostwick's favorite armchair.

"I'll take his pulse.""He's dead.""We should make sure."

Sharon picked up his arm and put her fingers on his wrist as she
had learned in First Aid class.

"Nothing."

They went to the sofa and sat down. They were silent for a few
minutes.

"What are we supposed to do when somebody dies?""Maybe it says in the book."

Will went upstairs to their room to get their copy of the U-town
Book. It was a slim volume which was given to every citizen (and for
sale to visitors). It included Ray Stone's essay, "U-town, not Utopia,"
various instructions and rules for citizens, and some reference
materials.

They looked in the index under "Death, not by violence" and found
this:

When somebody dies, not by violence, the following steps
should be taken:

Make sure the person is actually dead. This is covered in the
mandatory First Aid training. See p. 27.

Do not move the body any more than is necessary to determine if
life persists.

Go to City Hall and talk to the clerk, who will give you the
approproiate forms to fill out. The clerk will arrange for the body to
be transported to the hospital.

"We did the first thing.""But we weren't supposed to move the
body.""Should we move it back?""No, that might make it
worse.""We'll just have to tell them what we did.""I'm sure
we're not the first ones to do it wrong.""We hadn't read the book
yet.""We should go and talk to the clerk.""That may take a
while.""We should bring sandwiches for lunch.""The
refrigerator.""There's no power.""The refrigerator is off and
the food will all spoil.""And we just did grocery
shopping.""We should make sandwiches, of everything.""And then
we can bring them with us.""And give them to people who are
hungry."

Glad for something to do, they trooped off to the kitchen to make
sandwiches.

They knew that "City Hall" meant the hotel. There had been
attempts to set up an official city hall, or at least official offices,
but each time everything had slowly and inexorably relocated back to the hotel. The administrators
all lived there, and there were a lot of meeting rooms for them to
use, and people always came there with their questions and problems anyway.

The Golden owned the house now, but they didn't care about that. They minded much more that Mr. Bostwick was gone. He had known and experienced so many things in his long life, and those things were all gone now. They had tried to learn as much as they could from him, but he had always been more interested in talking about them and what they learned in school.

"We should go look for Hazel.""Ron.""To find out if she's okay.""She gets mad when we call her Hazel.""She lives at the hotel, with her parents.""We can ask about her when we go there to report about Mr. Bostwick."

When the sandwiches were made, they emptied their school bags and filled them with sandwiches. Then they set out for the hotel. This time they paid more attention to what was going on than they had when they were coming home from school..

"Was it an earthquake?""Maybe.""Would an earthquake explain all the smoke and dust in the air?""I'm surprised there aren't more people around.""Maybe.""And why is it so dark?""You don't suppose they're all dead.""I don't think so.""Remember what it said in the book, about disasters.""We should have reviewed that part, too.""I brought the book. It's in my bag.""Good thinking.""Well, in an emergency, people are supposed to go to the hospital.""Maybe that's where we should go first.""That's probably where they are.""It's closer, and maybe we can leave some of the sandwiches there for people."

So, they turned and headed toward the hospital. When they were nearly there, though, they saw a couple of people coming toward them. "The hospital is flooded," they said. "If you're injured, go to the school. If you're not injured, go to the hotel. That's where they're putting together rescue teams."

So, the Golden turned around and headed toward the hotel again.

The hotel lobby was full of people, and they were told they had to wait their turn, unless it was an emergency. They stood by the door and watched. After a few minutes, they got out sandwiches and started to eat. Some other people came up to them and asked if they had more, so they handed out some of the sandwiches.

Meanwhile, they watched, and saw that two people were trying to coordinate everything. One was a woman named Patricia, who wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. The other was a teenage boy named Arturo, who had a shaved head and wore a torn T-shirt and baggy shorts. And then Patricia went away and Arturo was running everything alone.

Finally, he came up to them and said, "Yes?"

"Arturo Carbonieri, we–"

He looked startled. "Call me Fifteen," he said. "What do you need, and what can you do?"

"We need to report a death."

"Mr. Bostwick."

"We lived with him."

"When he was alive."

"He's dead now."

"So, we need to file a report."

"The instructions in the book–"

He waved a hand. He started to say something, then he stopped himself. "You're the Golden," he said. "I've heard about you. Please don't think I'm being sarcastic, but there is, as I imagine you've noticed, a disaster of some sort going on."

They nodded. "We were wondering about that."

He waited a moment, then he said, "Let's just say that no forms need to be filed for the duration of the disaster. Whatever it is." They nodded seriously. "So, what else can you–"

"We're also looking for our friend Hazel."

"Ron."

"She prefers to be called Ron."

"Ah," Fifteen said. "I can help you with that. She's alive. Her leg was broken. She was at the bridge, waiting for the mail, when a truck fell on her. But she'll be fine."

"Where is she?"

"She's in the meeting room, with her parents. But a meeting just started, so you can't go in there now. Maybe you'd like to help out here until the meeting is over?"

Ron nodded, her eyes wide. "Yeah." She flexed the muscles of her
leg. No pain. It felt kind of weird, but it didn't hurt.

Terry left the room, and Ron wondered if this was a dream.

A few minutes later, Marshall came in. He saw that Ron was awake
and he came over to her, sitting in the chair Terry had been using.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her.

"I'm okay." He obviously thought she was just saying this to be
brave, so she continued, "It hurt a bit, but Terry made it stop
hurting." She made a face. That had sounded like something a child
would say.

"How did she do that?" he asked, leaning forward.

"She just touched me. Here." She pointed at her cheek.

She was about to ask a question when the door opened and Terry came
back in, carrying a tray. "I hope it's alright if we share. I couldn't
fit– Oh, hello, Marshall."

"Hello, Terry. When did you get here?"

He stood so she could sit again. The tray held a large plate of
spaghetti with some sauce on it, plus two forks and a large glass of
water.

"A few minutes ago. The car died as we were going over the bridge
and we had to walk. We got lost once or twice. Sam's knowledge of
local geography is not, I'm afraid, quite as good as he thought it
was."

"And the local landscape has changed somewhat in the last
twenty-four hours. We had just about the same experience at the other
bridge. The car didn't die, but the bridge had holes in it, so we had
to walk across."

Marshall helped Ron sit up (she winced in expectation of pain from
her leg, but there wasn't any). He took a pillow from the other end
of the sofa and slipped it behind her back to prop her up. She smiled
as he handed her the glass of water. She drank it all down quickly.

"Do you have any idea what's happened?" Terry asked Marshall. "Has
there been anything more on the radio?"

"Nothing. Just static. And now the batteries for the radios are
all dead anyway."

"Did they attack us?" Ron asked.

Terry frowned. "'They'? Define your terms."

Ron shook her head. "Never mind." She'd forgotten for a moment
that Terry was a teacher.

The door opened again and Pat stuck her head in. "More wounded
coming in, Marshall. We need you."

He nodded. "I'll be back." He squeezed Ron's shoulder. She would
have been furious if he'd hugged or kissed her in front of a stranger,
even a stranger who she thought was probably a member of her family.

"Well," Terry said, "if anybody attacked 'us,' meaning you –
meaning, I presume, U-town – then 'they,' whoever 'they' might
be, attacked the city as well, since we just drove through it, and it
looks pretty much as it does here. You can draw your own conclusions
from that."

Ron was in the rather unusual position, for her, of really wanting
to curse somebody out and being unable to say the words. And it
wasn't just because Terry was a teacher. Ron had cursed at
teachers quite often. Maybe it was because she had brought food. Which
she was holding in her lap, too far away for Ron to reach it.

Terry smiled. "Do you go to the school here? The U-town school?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah. My parents made me go." She shrugged. "It's
okay. The other kids, they're okay. I only go in the afternoon
anyway."

"Only in the afternoon? Why is that?"

"I deliver the mail in the morning. I pick it up at the bridge and
then I bring it here, for Vicki and Mom and Dad and the others. The
important mail."

"You deliver the mail? Isn't there a post office or something? Why
do they make you do it?"

Definitely a teacher. She didn't understand anything.

"Nobody makes me do it. It's what I do."

"And what do you study in school? I've read about the U-town
school, and it sounds quite innovative, if you're a fan of
unstructured learning environments."

"Well, they change the classes around all the time. I was taking
History. We were learning about slavery. Then they changed the
schedule, so now I'm taking Civics instead. History is in the morning
now. Civics is like history, but it's the history of U-town.

"I only went to one class so far for Civics. One kid said that my
dad wasn't as important as the others, as Vicki and Ray and them. So
I busted her in the nose and she had to go to the nurse." Terry
frowned disapprovingly. Ron wondered if that sort of thing happened in
her classes. "She only said it to bother me, to see what I'd say.
Well, she found out. Miss Nelson?"

"Yes?"

"The food is probably getting cold."

Terry smiled. "Oh, I am sorry," she said, getting up. "You were far
more patient than I would have been." She nudged the chair over so it was closer to Ron, then she sat down again and put the tray back on her lap. "As I said, I couldn't fit two
plates on the tray, so we'll have to share. I hope you don't mind."

Ron had already grabbed one of the forks and was chewing on a wad of
cold spaghetti. She shook her head, indicating that sharing was fine
with her. One strand of spaghetti was dangling down her chin,
and it left a trail of sauce as she slurped it into her mouth. Terry
frowned, but she didn't comment.

"In my defense," she said, after she had eaten a couple of bites
herself, "I realize it isn't warm, but it was pretty much cold when I
got it."

Ron shrugged and ate some more.

Ron felt a lot better after eating.

"I would go look for coffee," Terry said, "but I'm sure there isn't
any." She took off her glasses and started to wipe them. "Do you want
to know something funny?"

"Okay," Ron said hesitantly.

"I don't mean funny-amusing, of course," she explained, which Ron
had already figured out. "I mean funny-ironic. Do you think that
everything has a good side and a bad side?"

"You mean people?"

"No, I mean things that happen."

"I don't know." She frowned. "No, some things are just bad."

Terry nodded. "I really don't know." She gestured at Ron's leg. "I
imagine that must be pretty bad. There's nothing good about a broken
leg, is there?"

"No." She had intended to say, "Fuck no," but somehow only one
word had come out. Ron had been waiting for Terry to ask how she had
got hurt, but Terry had something else on her mind.

"For me, it is not entirely a bad thing. Oh, I don't mean your
injury. There's nothing good about that. But, even with all the death
and destruction today, there is one good thing about all this."

"There is?"

"Let me ask you another question. What if somebody was to write a
book about you, about your family and all the things that have
happened to you in your life, and that book was going to be published
and a lot of people were going to read it. How would you feel about
that?"

"I'd hate it," Ron said.

"Well, I was in that situation. Someone wrote a book about me,
about private things, and even some things that might get me in
trouble, and it was going to be published soon. Now, I don't know if
it will be published. So, I'm glad about that, even if I am sorry
about all the rest."

The door opened and Marshall came in. Terry stood up. "Marshall,"
she said, "I have to ask you a very important question. Is there
coffee?"

He smiled. "I don't think so, but there is tea. Somebody's started
a small fire to heat water."

"That will have to do. Please excuse me, Ron." She left, carrying the tray.

"Fuck," Ron said quietly. Marshall sat down again as she said
"Fuck" again a few times, with increasing volume and enthusiasm,
pounding the sofa cushion with her good hand, culminating with,
"Motherfucking Cocksucking Shit! Bitch! Fuck! Bitch! CUNT!"

She sighed and lay back.

Marshall smiled. "What brought that on?"

"It was weird, when Terry was here. It was like I couldn't swear.
I kept trying, but it wouldn't come out."

"Well, she is a teacher. She probably thinks girls your age
shouldn't curse."

Ron frowned. "You mean she was stopping me?"

"If she could make your pain go away by touching you, why not?" He
leaned forward. "Don't be mad at her. I don't think it's something she
does consciously."

"She's... she's Alex, isn't she? My grandmother?" He nodded. "She
was saying how glad she was that now the book probably won't come out,
how it would be embarrassing and stuff. But it's her book, Alex wrote
it. Right?"

He nodded again. "Yes."

"That's weird."

He laughed. "I guess it is. How did you know she was your
grandmother?"

"She looks like Mom."

He shook his head. "You are good with faces."

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"You spotted that your mother and Vicki are related, which nobody
ever sees. You figured out that Terry is your grandmother." He
smiled. "And you are, as far as I know, the only person who can tell
the Golden apart."

She shrugged. "Mr. Bostwick can."

"Okay, you're the only person who can tell the Golden apart other
than Mr. Bostwick, and he lives with them. That's pretty impressive.
The Golden all look the same to me, and even your mother sometimes has
trouble. She can sometimes tell Sharon from her brothers, but I know
she can't tell Will from Craig."

Ron was trying not to look pleased.

Jan came in and limped over to them, leaning over to hug Ron. "Oh,
stop squirming," she said. "I hurried in here so I'd be able to do
this before the others get here, but I am so glad you're alive that I
intend to hug you quite often. Whether you like it or not."

Ron hugged her mother with her one good arm, then she quickly
broke the embrace when the door opened again. Vicki came in and said,
"I think we've got Ray about as sober as we can get him, so we need to
meet."

Several people came in after Vicki. Terry was one of them, with a
stocky Black man with short hair and a small beard. Pat was there, and
Ray, who was wearing a bathrobe for some reason.

Vicki hopped up to sit on top of the meeting table, as usual. She
was so short that if she'd sat in a chair she'd have been nearly
invisible. The others took seats around the table and Ron noticed
that Terry wasn't carrying anything. Apparently she hadn't been able
to get tea after all.

Suddenly the door slammed open and four men came in. They were
dressed like soldiers and they were carrying rifles. "Okay," one of them said,
"you're all coming into custody. This whole 'experiment' is over.
This situation shows...."

"This is outrageous behavior!" said a voice Ron didn't recognize.
A tall, well-dressed woman in a bright yellow suit was limping toward
the soldiers, who were lowering their weapons. She had long, reddish
hair. Ron looked around the room, and she saw that Terry was missing.

Ron hadn't thought that having multiple personalities meant you could
change your clothes and hair whenever you wanted to.]]>

Ron was still lying in her tunnel. Nothing much had changed. People
yelled into the tunnel periodically, to make sure she was still okay,
but apparently a lot of other people needed help as well, and whatever
was on top of her was too big for anybody to move.

"Hang on!" Vicki said, closer now. "I want to make sure I do this
the right way, so things don't shift and crush you."

"That's okay," Ron replied. "Take your time."

"Jan and Marshall are coming. We couldn't take the car onto the
bridge. There were some big holes in the pavement, so they're walking
across. I ran ahead."

Ron was willing to wait. She'd been stuck in this tunnel for a
while – several hours as far as she could tell – and a few
more minutes was no big deal. And she really didn't want to get
squashed. A couple of times she had tried to ask people what was going
on, but they hadn't known, or they hadn't been able to explain it.
"It's big!" was about the clearest thing anybody had said.

She still didn't remember when things had changed. She remembered
sitting on the piling, as she did every morning, and then the next
thing she remembered she was trapped in here.

"Ron," came Marshall's voice, and Ron wiped her eyes with her good
hand.

"I'm here, Dad," she said.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fuck, no. I think my leg is broken and maybe my arm, too. Can you
get me out of here?"

"Vicki is working on it. It should be–"

There was a sort of metallic crashing noise, and Ron could see a
few strips of dim light. Then Marshall picked up the wooden thing that
had been on top of her. It turned out to be one of the pallets that
some of the food deliveries came in on.

Looking up, Ron saw one of the delivery trucks. It must have
fallen sideways and been lying on top of her, resting on the piling
that blocked the bridge, until Vicki had pulled it off.

And, yes, she was glad to be free, and to see her parents again,
but Ron was still determined not to cry. But then she saw the tears
in Marshall's eyes, so she figured it was okay. And even Jan Sleet,
the very rational amateur detective, took off her glasses and wiped
her eyes. Then, as Marshall leaned over and hugged Ron, being very
careful not to move her, Jan asked, "What's broken?"

She touched Ron's left leg, causing a burst of profanity. "I need
to see your leg," she said. "I'll need to take your pants–"

"No!"

Jan, seeing her daughter's resolve, called to Vicki. "I know you're
eager to go," she said, "but I need your help with a couple of
things."

"Sure," Vicki said as she trotted over.

Vicki Wasserman was generally described in newspaper articles as
the most unusual-looking head of state in the world. She was sixteen
years old, with long, straight black hair, and she usually wore a
leather jacket, a black T-shirt, black jeans, and high-top sneakers.
She was also the smallest world leader, being somewhat less than four
feet tall. As she said at times, it was appropriate that she was the
smallest head of state because she was the head of the smallest state.

People didn't always realize at first how small she was, because
her proportions were completely normal; she was just in miniature.
People sometimes commented that their initial impression had been that
she was simply farther away than she really was.

Vicki reached down and split the leg of Ron's jeans halfway up her
thigh, and then, as Jan's long, capable fingers began to probe,
causing more profanity, she pulled one of the boards from the pallet.
She snapped it in half across her knee, then she split piece one down
the middle with a blow of her tiny fist. She banged the broken ends
on the tarmac to flatten the worst of the splinters.

"Good enough?" she asked.

Jan glanced over and nodded. "Fine. Thanks. We'll see you at the
hotel, as soon as we can get there."

"Okay," Vicki said. "By the way, somebody just telling me that the
hotel is okay but the hospital is flooded and unusable." Jan and
Marshall looked over, horrified. "I know," Vicki said. "What a time to
lose the hospital. The power is out here, too. I'll learn more when I
see the others. See you soon."

She ran off, moving so fast that she vanished almost immediately
into the smoke and dust that was all around them.

"The femur is fine," Jan said, "but the tibia is broken, I think."
She noted Ron's grimace. "I'm sorry, dear. I wish you weren't in
pain; I wish I had painkillers; I wish I was a doctor..." She looked
around. "I wish I knew what happened here." Ron craned her neck up to
try to look over the barricade into U-town. Marshall helped her sit
up as Jan took off her sneaker. Marshall felt her shoulders sag as she
saw the area for the first time.

Ron had sat on this piling every morning for months, looking at
this view of U-town, waiting for the mail delivery. She knew every
street, every building, every storefront, every crack in the pavement,
every broken streetlight. And now, the building that had held U-town's
informal post office was a pile of rubble with one part of one wall
still standing. The window of the flower store was shattered and most
of the plants were knocked over. There was a long crack in the
pavement and one piece of the tarmac had buckled up like a throw rug.
There was a small fire in the little park in front of one building.

There were several shapes around that she was sure were dead
bodies. There was no one moving that she could see. The air smelled
foul. Her eyes stung, and she wiped them.

It was quite dark. Ron had no idea how long she'd been trapped,
but she couldn't believe it as nighttime yet. It looked like it was,
but if the whole day had passed she would have been a lot more hungry.

"What happened here?" she asked, looking around at the devastation.

Marshall shrugged, attempting a smile. "You were here. We weren't.
You tell us."

She thought it was a good sign that her father was able to joke.
What it really meant was that, with all the death and injury and
uncertainty, the most important thing to him was that she was alive.
He helped her lie down again.

Jan opened the small overnight bag Marshall had been carrying and
began to tear a shirt into strips.

"I'll tell you about our trip," Marshall said. He held her hand,
and she would squeeze it periodically as Jan's bandaging of her leg
became painful. "Perry was surprised to see us," he said. "He hadn't
heard anything about the book."

"Fuck," Ron murmured and Marshall squeezed her hand.

"Frankly, the other reason we wanted to talk to him was because
he's written a couple of articles about U-town. He's against the whole
idea, and–" He glanced at Jan, who didn't look up from her work.
"–your mother thought she could win him over."

"Ow," Ron said.

"Things didn't go that well with Perry, but then Alex and Sam
showed up this morning."

"Fuck. Who's Sam?"

"Alex's boyfriend. Didn't I mention him yesterday?"

"I don't know. Fuck. Ow. I can't remember. Shit!"

"Sorry," Jan said. "The worst should be over. I just need to look
at your wrist."

"It hurts if I move it."

Jan smiled. "Then don't move it. I'll look at it where it is."

"So," Marshall said, "things got a bit tense, as you can probably
imagine. Sam and Alex had come to talk to Perry as well, but they
hadn't planned on doing it with us there."

"So, what happened?" Ron asked. She was looking at her father very
intently, aware that he was distracting her from what was going on
with her arms and legs.

"Then, right after they arrived, your mother had a strong feeling
that something had happened here, to you. She turned on Perry's radio
and found a news report which said that there had been an explosion,
or a series of explosions, or an earthquake, or something, in the city
and in U-town. Then the radio station went dead, replaced by static.
We couldn't find another station broadcasting, so we set out. Sam and
Alex came, too, in their car. Sam's sister was in U-town, and he was
worried about her. Perry couldn't decide if he was coming or not, so
we left him behind. We needed to get here as quickly as possible."

"I'm done," Jan said. "We need to get going."

Moving very carefully, Marshall slid his arms under Ron and then
got carefully to his feet. Her left leg had splints tied to it with
strips of cloth and her left arm was in a sling. She put her right arm
around Marshall's shoulder.

"Okay?" he asked her.

She nodded.

Jan was kneeling by the bag, pulling out a notebook and a pen that
she put into her jacket pocket. "We're leaving the bag," she said.
"I'm going to have enough trouble walking without my cane as it is,
and you have your hands full. Literally."

"I could hold it," Ron said.

She shook her head. "I think we're going to have to get used to
leaving things behind."

Ron had no idea what that meant, but she decided not to ask right
then.

They walked the first couple of blocks in silence, just looking
at the devastation around them. They saw more bodies, and injured
people, and a lot of people trying to help.

"Runner!" Jan called when she saw a familiar face. A boy, probably
about Ron's age, came running over to them.

"Miss Sleet!" he said. "I'm glad you're back. Is Vicki–"

"She came back with us. Do you know what's happened?"

He shook his head. "I was asleep. I don't know. We've just been
trying to account for people, and some people are trapped in
buildings. Some we can't find at all."

"And the hospital?"

"Flooded. We're sending people to the school. It was the best we
could think of."

She nodded. "Thanks."

Ron hated to be helpless, and she hated it especially now that her
parents would have a million things to do and she would just be lying
around, hurt and unable to help. She hoped against hope that her leg
would turn out to be okay, maybe just strained or sprained or
something. But this wasn't likely. Her mother knew a lot about
injuries. Jan and Marshall told stories sometimes about a place called
Bellonna where she had written a series of articles about a war there,
including fixing up people with broken legs and so on.

Ron had never seen her mother so bedraggled looking. The
usually-immaculate detective's hair was uncombed, her face was
streaked with grime, her tie was loose, and her suit was dusty and
rumpled. Ron frowned. "Mom, where's your cane?"

Jan smiled. "I had to lend it to Tammy. She got us through the
police blockade."

"The whole city is closed off," Marshall explained. "All we saw on
the highway was cars leaving; no one was being allowed in. Vicki
tried to convince the soldiers that they should let us through. That
worked at the first blockade, but not the second one. Tammy had to
talk them into letting us through."

"Who's Tammy?" Ron asked.

"Well," he said as they turned the final corner to the hotel,
"that's a–"

"Jan! Marshall!" Pat said, running toward them. She had been
standing in front of the hotel. Jan hugged her awkwardly.

Vicki appeared from a side street, running toward them and
launching herself into Pat's arms, knocking off the taller girl's
ever-present baseball cap in the process. "I had to stop and get some
people out of a cellar," she explained.

Ron woke up disoriented. She cautiously opened her eyes and
looked around. She was in the meeting room in the hotel, the room
where Vicki and the others had their meetings and ran things. She
didn't spend a lot of time there, but it was usually where she
delivered the mail in the mornings.

There was nobody else in the room. The lights were still out, and
the windows were dark. The air still smelled bad, and her leg still
hurt. Marshall had given her a couple of painkillers, but they'd
obviously worn off.

One reason she was disoriented was that she was lying on something,
and she didn't know what it was. She poked at it with her good hand.
It seemed to be a sofa, but there weren't any sofas in the meeting
room. She turned her head. It looked like one of the sofas from the
lobby. Somebody must have carried it in for her. She vaguely
remembered this, and she remembered Pat bringing her a peanut butter
sandwich.

She'd stayed awake for a while after they'd got here, so she'd
heard her parents report that things in the city were pretty much the
same as here, and how nobody had any idea what had happened. She was
not used to situations that her mother couldn't figure out pretty
quickly.

The door opened and a woman came in. She was tall and lean, with
shoulder-length ash-blonde hair and a narrow face. She wore glasses
and her eyes were large, but her nose, mouth, and chin were small. She
was wearing a light-colored sweater over a dark brown collared shirt,
tan slacks, and dark brown boots.

She looked rather tense, but Ron did notice that, unlike everybody
else, her clothes and face were completely clean.

Seeing that Ron was awake, she pulled over one of the chairs and
sat beside the sofa. She held out her hand. "I'm Terry Nelson," she
said. "I'm a school teacher."

"Ron," she said. "I'm Jan Sleet's daughter."

"Don't try to sit up," Terry said. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Yeah," Ron said, keeping her voice low, though they were alone in
the room.

Terry said, "I guess there aren't any painkillers or anything like
that."

"I don't know. My father gave me a couple that he had, but..."

"But they've worn off. I see. Is there anything else you need?"

"Well, I'm really thirsty. And I'm kind of hungry, too." Ron hated
asking for help, but she didn't seem to have any choice.

Terry stood up. "I'll see what I can do." She looked down on
Ron for a moment, her expression difficult to read in the gloom. Her hair
fell around her face, throwing it into more shadow. She took off her
glasses, then she reached out her hand and touched Ron's cheek for an
instant.

Ron's reluctance to be touched by strangers was overcome by
her surprise that the pain suddenly went away.]]>